3/24/2020
Bitterness and incalculable grief have been my constant bedfellows for a month and a half now with daily increasing intensity and no respite in sight. That's not me being dramatic, it's just the facts. I'm quite sure at this point that I have gone mad, was so shortly before I even knew of this goddamn virus. But I am walking wounded. I can still function... It's more accurate to say that WE can still function. I am no longer "alone" in my head. He is always there now, right next to me like we're sharing a loveseat while I play a video game He is mostly content to watch and make snarky commentary about... At the moment. I capitalize the h in He the same way I do for I. I have known Him for many years, but He was always an occasional and often unwelcome guest in my reality. Now He's like a radio without a control knob for station or volume, and He's an asshole.
I need psychiatric care, but because of circumstances I am unable to even get state healthcare. I called the assistance line several times and it just told me in English and Spanish that it could not take my call right now and hung up. There isn't going to be a psychiatrist. I won't be getting pillz of any sort. I'm quite sure that pillz wouldn't "fix" us anyway, and everything is in hardcore mode now. We have come to accept our situation. It's no reason to give up on trying to do whatever is necessary in these times, but I do somewhat fear His demonstrated ability to take over "playing the game" if I'm passed out from exhaustion. He doesn't have a morality as we humans think of morality, He's truly alien in some ways, but He does seem to keep His agreements.
We have agreed
That I should lead
And He only
Handle the wheel
If dire need be.
... We shall see.
My life has very often been a surreal exercise in pretending to be ok, but these days I'm far from alone in that. Today my good father had men come to the house to pour concrete. He's spending thousands of dollars on "finishing" his house even as his 401k took a 40% nosedive about a week after I warned him about the virus and an immanent collapse, urging him to pull it all, pay the damn taxes, and reinvest in hard assets, imperishable food, and potential trade goods. He believed Trump over me even though he knows better than anyone that I can often see the future with preternatural seeming clarity. "I told you so" has become more bitter in my mouth than anything eating oranges ever did.
I am fortunate to have a roof, table, and loving family. We are all four of us doing our best to "self isolate", but dear old dad just doesn't seem to get it. I presume at this point that one of us or the other is eventually going to bring 'Rona home one day and infect us all, probably before even being symptomatic. In this realization I have become a bit fatalistic in lieu of allowing paranoia to take hold.
It's about to be dinner time. We're having tacos. Something tells me, flatly, that I had better appreciate the shit out of them. A day will come soon when I will dream of tacos with my family to keep out the pain in my belly, lungs, and heart and count myself fortunate to even have the blessings of such memories.
I've never kept a journal before. It's actually really soothing to see it in writing. Until the next entry, then. Have a fine evening folks.